I noticed a rather odd mound of twigs and debris, earth and rubbish near to where the swan’s mate was still resting. I figured this mound to be their nest. It was much larger than anything the coots used. A nest of canal detritus. There were no signs of any signets, but there must have been some on the way. I hoped that there were some on the way. A bird of such splendour and monogamy deserves something in return.
I turned my attention back to the air: the swan in flight, the huge whiteness of it, the hulk of it returning to the canal, its fine wings, feathers splayed as it descended back towards the murky water, stalling against the air, returning back, back to its mate, embracing gravity again.
The swan finally landed. I looked over to the whitewashed office block: he was working, head down, still at his desk, staring at some papers, some files. He had forgotten all about the swan, the spectacle. He was back at his desk. Working. He had missed it.
eleven
It had felt like an entire age had passed me by since I wrote my letter of resignation. I still didn’t regret it as such, but I wished I had written it better. Its composition was far too rushed, too abrupt, too haughty. It wasn’t really me. I wish I had explained things better. Clearer. I tried to re-write the letter many times one afternoon, but the page remained empty. It was an impossibility to me. It felt like my arm, my right arm — I was writing this letter, or attempting to write this letter, in longhand, in a spiral notebook — consisted of lead, pure liquid lead running through its veins, filling up its bones instead of marrow. I couldn’t even lift it to the page, I could just about grasp my black Pilot V5 Hi-Techpoint 0.5 pen. That was it. Nothing. No matter how hard I tried to re-write that letter I failed to do so. It was a complete impossibility.
Part Four — Gravity
one
I was unaware of what time it was in the morning; time just seemed to be dragging me along. I was walking to the canal. I couldn’t remember what day it was. It was probably midweek. The light was odd, a mixture of shadow and slanting, piercing shafts of yellow. Rainclouds were forming. Nonetheless, those who were walking to work along the towpath seemed to possess a far more agreeable and upright gait than usual, despite the ominous gathering above. Gone were the bent backs, the downward glances and dishevelled postures. Now there seemed to be direction and purpose to their collective footfalls. Even the cyclists seemed more positively energised, thanking me for moving aside as they trundled by, actually adhering to the suggested two tings rule. I walked along, observing the reflections in the murky water, until I heard a helicopter overhead. I looked up to see it hanging there in the distance, above Islington. It was dragging beneath it a huge advertising banner for some airline. I tried to measure the size of the banner by using the façade of a block of flats to my right as a gauge, but it proved to be impossible due to the differing perspectives. I was finally happy with it simply being huge: a huge advertising banner hovering up high above me. Happy that I was untouched by it, that it wasn’t interfering with me, that it was, simply, distant. Below me, by my feet, I could hear the canal lapping against the concrete bank.
two
I noticed it immediately and felt crushed. I felt like an insect must feeclass="underline" its life being squeezed through its exoskeleton underneath the weight of a boot, then consciousness slowly fading down into the dirt and the filth. It was quite hard to fathom what was happening at first glance. All I knew was that the bench was no longer there.
In its place stood a man-made wall, consisting solely of large wooden boards. It stretched as far as I could see, all along the right-hand side of the canal. A lone construction worker was painting it white.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t sit on the bench, as the bench had disappeared somewhere behind the wall — if it even existed at all anymore. I looked to where the bench used to be, or where the wall now occupied the space in front of it, towering over me, all eight or nine feet of it. It didn’t make sense to me. I looked for her. I couldn’t see her. There was no sign of her at all. I stood by the wall. I felt stupid. I was highly visible against it. It loomed above me. It made me feel small — something I’m usually not aware of. My right leg began to shake. I didn’t know what to do. I was feeling like a house cat must feel when walking into a recently refurbished home.
I rested the back of my head against the newly painted wall, not really caring if it was still wet. I noticed the workman who was painting it down the far end, towards Islington, looking at me for a short while before putting his wet roller back up to the wall to continue his laborious chore. He must have momentarily wondered what I was doing there, leaning against his newly painted wall for no apparent reason. I turned fully to my right, putting my right eye to the wall so I could look all the way along it towards Wenlock Basin and the trendy developments there, the Victorian warehouses and Georgian rooftops peeking above the trees of Islington in the distance. It seemed that about four cranes had sprouted up from the earth over night, each assigned to a specific purpose, each lifting and moving things up into place. The murky water was shimmering in the odd light, with dark patches of black cut and spliced into geometric patterns that moved forwards with purpose, mirroring the progress being developed on either side. Buildings that had once dwarfed the surrounding area were soon to be dwarfed themselves by the newer gleaming structures appearing like fungi from any available space. The canal was disappearing, its bridges and towpaths would soon be widened and extended, the towpath would morph into an ‘urban space’, the bridge into a resting point, a platform to view the new lifestyles on show. I hated it all. I really hated it all. And the sad thing, the thing that began to rankle deep within me, was that I was powerless to stop it.
Gradually, I noticed two colourful signs that had been riveted onto the freshly painted wall. I could see that both signs were repeated further along the wall at exactly the same height, maybe four or five times in total. The first of these signs read:
creatingthrivingcommunites
It was written in an everyday font like Helvetica or Impact, all the letters lower case and set as if it was one continuous word. But in case anyone thought it was one word, the designers of the sign had coloured the word creating in green and the word thriving in red; the word communities was left black. I figured that each of these colours must have been deliberated over for some time by whichever design team worked on this sign. I figured that the word creating coloured green must have been designed that way in order to symbolise an organic and eco-friendly environment and the word thriving coloured red must have been designed to symbolise vibrancy and action. I felt that the word community was left black because the new, young professionals were yet to move into the proposed properties that were about to be built, so there was no way to judge which colour might represent them. The second sign, which was much bigger — an obvious death knell to the existing residents of the Packington Estate — read:
Phase 1 will include 127 new affordable homes for existing residents in a mixture of 1, 2 and 3 bedroom apartments in two 6-story blocks overlooking the Regent’s Canal and a terrace of 3, 4, 5 bedroom houses.
The second sign was more practical; there was no colouring; there was no need for it to dazzle any passing pedestrian. It merely conveyed the inevitable. I looked at the top of an existing block of flats from the Packington Estate. Now matter what the new sign said, these new flats were not going to be affordable to the average resident of the estate. I wondered what they thought about all this. I wondered if the designers of the sign had thought about how all this was impacting on the original residents.